


iii. ghostdance

by foundCarcosa



Series: Spire-Crossed: A Fanfic/Fanmix Project [3]
Category: Fable (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-09
Updated: 2012-08-09
Packaged: 2017-11-11 19:21:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/482003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foundCarcosa/pseuds/foundCarcosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[ accompanying song: "Leliana's Song", from the Dragon Age: Origins soundtrack ]</p><p>The passage of time is nothing to he who can See the glory of what once was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	iii. ghostdance

**Author's Note:**

> _Vir samahl la numin. Vir lath sa’vunin._  
>  [We laugh and cry. We love one more day.]

Once, the Fairfax family defined nobility. Impeccably dressed and straight-backed, they made great show of themselves in order to set a standard — there was basic peasantry, and there were those in service, and then there were _the served._ Aristocracy was beauty and grace, delicate strength, power without brutishness. Even when it appeared that the Fairfax family was cursed, tainted, doomed to madness, this definition still held. Madness became a luxury only the nobility could afford. Madness became delightfully tragic, the subject of sordid one-coin novellas, the most lofty of gossip subjects.

But before this became the Fairfax trademark, there were the balls. Grand, bi-annual affairs held at the castle, invitation-only, with a strict code of dress from head to toe. Albans waited eagerly by their mailboxes during the week of the invitations, letting out exultant shrieks or disappointed sighs depending on what the postman brought. The weeks following would be a flurry of imported silks and dyed thread, heated discussions about this year’s “in” colours and “out” shoes, and husbands griping in the smoky taverns. The night of the ball, Castle Fairfax would be ablaze with light, and the lordly family would throw open the doors to their esteemed guests for hours of dancing and schmoozing and drinking and just a modicum of scandalous behaviour — all aristocratic gatherings required a modicum of scandalous behaviour to be properly aristocratic.

When Lucien Fairfax came of age, he and his fiancée Helena revived the tradition; their wedding reception even coincided with the night of the sowing-season ball. The first time a ball was cancelled was when Bowerstone and environs began to suspect the worst. Helena and baby Amelia were buried not too long after.

Years later, Garth stumbles upon Lucien in the dusty, dark ballroom, drifting over the once-shining floor like a ghost. When he turns to greet the mage, he doesn’t seem as sad as expected — nostalgic, yes, but not as sad as expected.

“It was beautiful once,” he sighs, a hand sweeping the room. A fleeting glimpse of crystal chandeliers ablaze and lacquered floor gleaming flashes before Garth’s left eye before it fades. The ballroom now seems even dustier, even darker, even more forlorn.

“There’s no reason why it can’t be again,” Garth counters reasonably, although he wants nothing more than to be gone from this place of ghosts, to lead Lucien back to the hearth where light still blazed and warmth still resided.

“Oh, no, no, its heyday is…” Lucien sighs, letting the sentence trail off — there is no need to say what is already obvious — and bows his head, regarding Garth from under his eyelashes. “But maybe… hm. Come here, Garth.”

Taken off-guard, the mage hesitates, his brow furrowing. His lips start to form a question, but the best answer would be obtained if he simply heeded the call. He steps into the ballroom, his shoes making the softest tap as he advances towards Lucien’s outstretched hands.

“Do you dance, scholar?” The teasing in his voice indicates he suspects the answer.

“Of course not,” Garth responds, brusquely. Lucien chuckles, places one of Garth’s hands on his shoulder, and clasps the other firmly in his own. The mage jumps slightly when Lucien’s free hand slips around his waist, his eyes narrowing.

“I don’t think—”

“Shh. Listen. And follow.”

Garth listens, but there is nothing to hear. The lute players are long silent, and the men’s voices echo in the stillness. But as Lucien begins to lead him in slow, sure steps, he thinks he hears. He thinks he hears.

While he strains to catch the melody, his feet move of their own accord, following Lucien’s guidance. They glide across the floor, stirring up small clouds of dust, leaving symmetrical tracks. Lucien’s hand is warm in his, almost as warm as the encouraging smile he gives, the smile that actually reaches his brilliant blue eyes.

And they’re surrounded, suddenly, by other dancers — clad in vivid blues and verdant greens, men in sharp suits and women in flowing gowns, smiling and laughing and intentionally tripping into each other if only to get away with some small impropriety or another, but all dancing, all dancing to the music that flowed around them in crystal-clear notes, high lilting vocals and a gently-plucked lute woven together into something more beautiful than beauty and more timeless than time…

The song slows, and so do the two time-travellers, and as the notes begin to fade out, so do the colours and smiles and blazes of light.  
Garth and Lucien lower their hands, and Lucien raises his again to frame the mage’s face affectionately before embracing him.

The questions were still there — the human mind always questioned magic — but neither felt the need to ask. The need to be in a moment they rarely got an opportunity to enjoy was greater.


End file.
